Unto This Last
A BOY’S young fancy taketh loveMost simply, with the rind thereof;A boy’s young fancy tasteth moreThe rind, than the deific core.Ah, Sweet! to cast away the slipsOf unessential rind, and lipsFix on the immortal core, is well;But heard’st thou ever any tellOf such a fool would take for foodAspect and scent, however good,Of sweetest core Love’s orchards grow?Should such a phantast please him so,Love where Love’s reverent self deniesLove to feed, but with his eyes,All the savour, all the touch,Another’s—was there ever such?Such were fool, if fool there be;Such fool was I, and was for thee!But if the touch and savour tooOf this fruit—say, Sweet, of you—You unto another giveFor sacrosanct prerogative,Yet even scent and aspect wereSome elected Second’s share;And one, gone mad, should rest contentWith memory of show and scent;Would not thyself vow, if there sighSuch a fool—say, Sweet, as I—Treble frenzy it must beStill to love, and to love thee?
Yet had I torn (man knoweth not,Nor scarce the unweeping angels wotOf such dread task the lightest part)Her fingers from about my heart.Heart, did we not think that sheHad surceased her tyranny?Heart, we bounded, and were free!O sacrilegious freedom!—TillShe came, and taught my apostate willThe winnowed sweet mirth cannot guessAnd tear-fined peace of hopefulness;Looked, spake, simply touched, and went.Now old pain is fresh content,Proved content is unproved pain.Pangs fore-tempted, which in vainI, faithless, have denied, now budTo untempted fragrance and the moodOf contrite heavenliness; all daysJoy affrights me in my ways;Extremities of old delightAfflict me with new exquisiteVirgin piercings of surprise,—Stung by those wild brown bees, her eyes!